“Oh my God,” Honor goes, “you’re not actually wearing that, are you?”
And by that she means my black, Canterbury elite protection body ormour vest.
I’m like, “Why wouldn’t I wear it?”
And she goes, “Er, because it doesn’t fit you for storters? You look like a superhero who’s let himself go.”
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
Sorcha goes, ‘I make no apologies for saying it, Honor. You are a danger to democracy’
‘When they see the copper, the triplets think it’s about them gobbing on the cauliflower and turmeric latte crowd - which I’m not even sure is a crime’
‘We’ve no idea what caused the fire. And we’re sticking to that story’
I’m there, “Oh, it’s okay to body-shame your old man now, is it?”
She’s like, “It’s not body-shaming. I’m just saying, you’re supposed to be going for your first modelling assignment–”
“Not my first,” I go. “I wore a thong for your old dear’s In There Like Swimwear fashion show in aid of Dorfor in ‘07.”
She’s like, “Dad, what have I told you before about boundaries?”
I’m there, “To, em, recognise them.”
“Exactly. I’m just making the point that you can’t turn up at a modelling assignment in something that clearly doesn’t fit you any more – and that’s if it ever did?”
Seriously, it’s a miracle that I have the incredible confidence that I do
In my life, I’ve always been surrounded by people who keep me grounded. I wish they’d focking stop.
So – yeah, no – I stand in front of the mirror and I run my hands up and down my abs like I’m fingering the buttons of an accordion.
I’m there, “Well, I happen to think I look fantastic.”
I grab my cor keys and I head outside. As I’m climbing into the driver’s seat, I notice that Honor is getting into the front passenger seat beside me.
I’m like, “Er, where do you think you’re going?”
She goes, “My nearly 50-year-old dad is having photos taken for a so-called modelling portfolio – do you honestly think I’m going to miss that?”
I’m there, “Okay, you can come, but there’s to be no ripping of the piss like you usually do.”
“Yeah, I don’t need your permission? And I’ll rip the piss if I want.”
“Put your seat belt on. I’m 42, by the way.”
So – yeah, no – we drive to Ranelagh and I pork on the street outside the offices of Berrent and Brown, this modelling agency that – I want to say – spotted me in Cinnamon in Monkstown and thought I maybe had something. We’re met in reception by Melanie, the woman who did the actual spotting.
She looks me up and down and goes, “You weren’t planning on actually wearing that, were you?”
Seriously, it’s a miracle that I have the incredible confidence that I do.
I’m like, “What, this thing? Yeah, no, it’s just something I threw on.”
She goes, “And is this your daughter?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, this is Honor.”
The woman’s there, “Lovely to meet you, Honor. Are you interested in doing any modelling yourself?”
Quick as a flash, I’m like, “No, she’s not,” because this is my gig and I’m not letting her muscle in on it. “As in, I refuse to give my permission.”
“I don’t need your permission,” Honor goes. “But no, Melanie, I’m not interested, thank you.”
Melanie looks at me then and goes, “Mortin, our photographer, is just going to take a few shots of you in different outfits, different poses, so you’ll have a portfolio that we can use to – if you like – sell you to advertisers.”
He looks me up and down and goes, ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’
I’m like, “Hey, no problemo,” and I say it in a genuinely flirty way, which makes her laugh.
I’m in absolutely scintillating form today.
She goes, “First things first, though. The fee–”
“The two thousand yoyos for the snaps?” I go. “Yeah, no, I transferred it to your bank account about an hour ago.”
She’s like, “Oh, wonderful! And I have a contract here that you might want to read–”
I snatch it out of her hands, scribble my name on it and hand it back to her. I suppose I’m showing off a bit. But then I think, whatever it is that I’ve agreed to, Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara can always get me out of it later on.
Melanie leads me and Honor into the studio where the actual photographs of me are going to be taken. She introduces us to Mortin, the photographer dude, who’s in his, like, 60s with grey hair in a ponytail.
He looks me up and down and goes, “You’re not wearing that, are you?”
For fock’s sake.
Melanie’s like, “No, I’ve got a number of outfits that I’m going to ask Ross to put on.”
I’m there, “In terms of the vibe, Melanie, I was thinking maybe one eyebrow raised, cheeky little smile – the whole married but persuadable thing?”
“Oh my God,” Honor goes – she’s at that age where everything about me embarrasses her?
Melanie’s there, “I was thinking more, you know, proud rugby dad, former’s market on Saturday, cycles with a group of male friends on Sunday, votes Fine Gael but tells everyone he votes Green.”
I’m there, “I think I can pull that off.”
She hands me a white shirt and a pink, cable-knit sweater and goes, “Maybe tie the sweater loosely around your shoulders and we’ll put some sunglasses on the top of your head.”
Let’s be honest, it’s a look that I’m not exactly unfamiliar with? So I go behind the curtain and I throw on the threads as directed. Then this Mortin dude snaps me in various poses and various moods, all of which I manage to pull off, bor one.
“Try to look thoughtful,” he goes.
In fairness to me, I give it a good go, but after 15 minutes, we all agree that it’s not working, so then Melanie hands me my second outfit, which is a black polo neck sweater and a pair of – hilariously – glasses with, like, clear lenses in them?
“Oh my God!” Honor keeps going. “Oh! My actual! God!”
Eventually, the sessions ends and Melanie seems delighted with what they’ve got.
I’m there, “So you think this could be a whole new career for me?” and I’m thinking how jealous Rob Kearney is going to be when he finds out that the Rossmeister is modelling! There’ll be war!
She goes, “Oh, I’m sure when we put these shots out there, the work is going to come flooding in.”
Honor’s like, “Oh! My God!” and I notice that she’s reading the famous contract that I signed.
Melanie snatches it from her and goes, “I’ll take that.”
“Oh! My! God!” Honor is still going as we’re getting back into the cor.
So I’m like, “What the fock are you oh my Godding about?”
And she goes, “Dad, you really should have read that contract?”
